Take Care of You
by madame.alexandra
Summary: She wanted dinner, without expectations. Holly Snow/Gibbs. Short and friendly. Pretty Woman-ish. Tag to "Guilty Pleasure".


_A/N: Because I will always have three near-and-dear NCIS 'shipyards to dabble in, and one of those is Holly Snow/Gibbs. She was an intriguing character who had phenomenal chemistry with him; tell me someone out there wants to see her back as badly as I do? _

_Tags NCIS Season 7 Episode "Guilty Pleasure"; in order to convince Holly Snow to help the agency catch a serial killer, Gibbs must agree to her one condition-a condition she whispers in his ear, and we don't find out until the end. __*95% of the dialogue in this is taken directly from the episode. _

_"That's a deal breaker." -Leroy Jethro Gibbs. _

* * *

She hadn't quite known what to expect when Gibbs told her to be at his house at eight o'clock on the dot, but when she had arrived, Holly Snow found it was exactly as she'd subconsciously imagined it. It was a bare bones, dimly lit, white-picket-fence house that felt hollow not with emptiness but with a history it just couldn't bear.

She felt like that herself sometimes, and so she was comfortable here.

He wasn't a talker, and while he cooked—cooked steak in his _fireplace,_ no less, as if it were the most natural thing—he let her wander around his house. She ran her fingers over the shelved books in his living room, tilting her head to take them in, noted the blanket and pillow on the couch that indicated he slept there.

She didn't take the liberty of exploring upstairs, but she did venture down to the basement—and _that_ was a whole different story in itself. It was a woodshop wonderland, and she couldn't begin to guess what he was building among all the bourbon and tools.

She stood on the rickety stairs of the basement pensively, her lips pursed in a secretive smile, amusing herself with comparisons to _Pretty Woman_—though the only similarities between those characters and herself and Gibbs, really, was the hair.

She was at the mantle again when he was setting the table, standing quite still with her purse and her sweater in hand, her head tilted as she looked at a single picture of Gibbs with a woman and a child that looked very much like him in the eyes. It was the only photograph she'd seen in the house; the only tangible snapshot of life.

She heard the _pop_ and _hiss_ of a beer being cracked, and when she turned to follow the sound, he was behind her, smirking, and offering her the one he'd just opened. She took it, tapped the neck against his, and took a swig, following him to the table.

Dinner; home-cooked, with no strings attached.

It was something she desperately missed. She liked it here.

His easy silence, and the mild way he responded to her small talk and just let her _be_ indicated he was comfortable here too; gone was the hardheaded, calculating agent and left was the Marine, and the man—one and the same.

"Okay," she said, breaking the silence, piercing a piece of meat with her fork. "This has got to be the best steak I've ever had," she complimented. She bit the morsel between her teeth and closed her lips. "Please, tell me, what is your secret?"

He tilted his head slightly, unfazed by the high praise.

"S'all about the touch," he said, shrugging. "When it's ready…I pour a little beer on it," he confessed.

Holly smiled. She picked up her beer and tipped it towards him light-heartedly.

"Waste of beer," she quipped, tilting it to her lips.

He snorted quietly.

"Well. Thank you for a wonderful evening," she said sincerely, and set her longneck down. Her lips quirked up at the corners. "And for delivering on my little, ah, _deal breaker_."

Gibbs looked at her skeptically, chewing thoughtfully.

"Really, it's that special?" he asked half-heartedly.

To him, it seemed impossible that a silent, classless dinner at home could be the one thing that convinced her to work with him. This was a woman who had been courted by millionaires, senators, moguls—she was younger, she was stunning, she was a damn art _history_ major.

Holly inclined her head, the look in her eyes genuine.

"All I wanted was dinner without expectations," she said in her low, whiskey voice, a shrug touching her shoulders.

There was something upsetting, vaguely sad about her words. Her profession was her choice, but at what price?

She smiled wryly.

"With a friend," she added mildly.

He arched a brow, gesturing between them with a fork.

"We're friends?" he asked.

The federal agent and the DC Madame? Holly Snow, Leroy Jethro Gibbs' _prostitute_ friend? It was an absurd combination, an unlikely one. But there was some strange magnetism to it. She had no family. His family was gone. Her life wasn't what she wanted it to be, and his wasn't either.

Her phone rang shrilly, and he went back to eating, mulling over the evening mildly.

"Excuse me," she said politely. "Hello? Hi," she answered the phone in her sultry, demure-dangerous voice. He kept his eyes on his steak, entertaining only a dull curiosity for whom she might be talking to.

It wasn't his business. After all, she hadn't asked about the photo of Shannon and Kelly.

"Tonight?" she was murmuring. "What time? All right. I see what I can do," she gave a small, practiced laugh. "All right. Bye," and she was hanging up the phone, flipping it closed, taking her purse, sliding it inside the pocket.

Gibbs looked over at her wryly, meeting her eyes.

"Oh! I can explain," she began, but he shrugged.

"Nah…don't have to," he told her bluntly.

He was sincere. He meant it as much as he'd meant it when he told her he didn't care why she did what she did. Her life; her choices. Her business.

"No, I know what you must be thinking," she said, pursing her lips. A strand of her springy red hair fell near her eyelash and she looked torn between telling him anyway and keeping the professional aspect of her life, well, professional.

Gibbs shook his head slightly, smirking.

"Oh…I—I doubt that," he said gruffly.

Holly looked at him quietly, arching her brow at his response. She smiled and parted her lips, her nose wrinkling as she smiled tightly; pretty and apologetic.

"I gotta go," she said demurely, and stood up.

She gathered her purse and her white sweater from the empty chair she'd laid them on and she looked over the meal, smiling softly. Her heels clicked on his hardwood floor as she slowly walked over to him, and she stopped next to him, leaning her hip against the table.

"You know how long it's been since I had dinner, no expectations?" she asked mildly.

He shook his head, shrugging his shoulders.

"Wouldn't ask a lady her age," he said, and she smiled, once again pleasantly surprised by his rarely seen sense of humor.

"Then I won't tell," she said, holding up her hand to swear on her honor. She tilted her head at him. "There's something else I haven't had since I can remember."

"What's that?" Gibbs asked, leaning back.

Holly bit the inside of her cheek and smiled at him genuinely.

"Kiss that wasn't paid for," she said, and reached up to tap her bottom lip. "Kiss on the mouth."

Gibbs cocked his head at her, his brows going up in mild surprise and interest. He leaned back, his hands resting on the table, and flicked his eyes over her, as if sizing her up—figuring out if he should take her seriously or not.

"The mouth?" he asked, furrowing his brow.

"Breaks the rules, in my line of work," she said bluntly. "Too personal."

He nodded. Made sense. Hell, though, it must be hard for her to—what had she said?—_make 'em feel like they're the only ones_ if there was no kissing on the mouth.

Gibbs reached over and touched her hand, flipping it over and running his fingers over her palm. He wrapped his hand around her wrist and pulled her forward so she was leaning down closer to him—within arms reach—and then he reached up and touched her neck with both hands, tilting her head down to him.

He kissed her.

He didn't know what he was expecting when Holly asked him to kiss her, but when he did, he found that kissing a hooker was no different than kissing any beautiful woman; he found it was exactly what he'd been anticipating. It was normal. It was good.

She put her hand on the back of his neck.

It was a slow kiss, a stranger's kiss, an exploratory, curious, deep kiss. It was a kiss that only scratched the surface, and when she pulled away on her own time, he was satisfied with just the one kiss, and he would be satisfied, too, if she wanted to do it again.

Holly leaned back, pulling her hands to herself and placing them behind her on the table. She smiled at him for a moment, her cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkling through her dark lashes. She pressed her lips together wryly and tilted her head, cocking an eyebrow confidently.

"Friends?" she asked. She lifted her shoulders vulnerably. "I don't have many."

He shrugged, and shook his head.

"Me either."

She smirked and gathered her things; she pressed a chaste kiss to his temple. She slid her purse over her wrist and folded her sweater over it, heels clicking as she headed for the door.

"Holly," he said gruffly, leaning back up to the table and focusing back on his steak. He heard her stop and wait. "Take care of you."

She laughed quietly.

"Take care of you, Jethro," she said returned.

And she left his bare bones house, but she didn't have much doubt that it wouldn't be the last time she'd find a safe haven there.

Then again, there were no expectations.

* * *

_"Take care of you." -Vivian Ward; Pretty Woman (1990)_

_I'm considering doing a bunch of little Holly/Gibbs ficlets (a ship name I like to call "Jethsnow") called the "Pretty Woman Series" and (naturally) basing them on the movie of the same name. Thoughts?_

_-Alexandra  
story #98_


End file.
